Healer of Carthage by Lynne Gentry Page A

boy’s hairless chest. Someone much larger than Laurentius must have used blunt force to wipe the interminable smile from this innocent soul. Stubby fingers with pinkies that curved inward. Hobbit-like bare feet with larger than normal spaces between each big toe and second toe. Unlike Barek, this boy’s reduced stature and thinning hair made it difficult to determine his exact age. How could someone appear so old and so childlike at the same time? The weak suffering as the strong stood by. He was a child. Someone should have defended him. Visions of Abra lying still and blue in the middle of the gurney swept over her. Her inattention and indifference had killed that child. She was no better than the soldier who’d beaten Laurentius almost to death. Lisbeth leapt from her crouched position, ran to the garden, and vomited into the nearest planter.
    Next thing she knew, Cyprian stood at her side, an irritating column of unshakable durability. “Are you ill?”
    “No.” Lisbeth wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I can’t go back.”
    Cyprian grasped her elbow. “You will.”
    She followed him to the wounded and her failure to defend the weak. She’d thought Mama’s disappearance had made her stronger, but she was mistaken. Taking care of Papa since she was five had made her hard. Tough and calloused were not the same thing.
    She stood over Laurentius. What could she do for this boy beyond a cool cloth to the forehead? If his internal injuries matched his external bruising, she had nothing to offer.
    Ruth appeared with a basket filled with rags, small pouches, and an assortment of wicked iron implements, including a long iron poker that glowed red hot. “Hold this, Caecilianus.”
    The healer used a crude pair of scissors to cut Barek’s sleeve from cuff to shoulder. “The emperor has granted Aspasius his request for additional troops.”
    “More soldiers?” Ruth held Barek steady. “Already they outnumber us two to one.”
    Cyprian weighed in on the conversation. “Rome considers Carthage hard won. I’m sure the proconsul had no trouble convincing the emperor to commission his militia to protect the wealthy and the investments they’ve made in the restoration of this strategic port and its aqueducts.”
    “Making war where there is no fight fills many coffers.” Lisbeth’s mother patted Barek’s good shoulder. “I’m sorry. This is going to hurt.” She poured brown liquid over Barek’s wound. His howl echoed in the hall. “Eradicating Christians is a cheap way to occupy bored soldiers.”
    “Some believers say we must leave Carthage while we can.” Ruth caressed Barek’s hand. “Flee to the mountains.”
    Murmurs of agreement swept through the pressing crowd.
    The healer turned to the old bishop. “Is this true, Caecilianus? Will you give in to this fear and desert the sick?” She held the flask to Barek’s lips, but her eyes castigated the crowd. “I will not go.”
    Caecilianus studied the poker, as if answers hid in the glow. His eyes traveled to his son, then to the crowd, and finally to Ruth. Anyone paying attention could see the love and sadness passing between them. “Believers, we will stay the course.” Solemnity swept across every face. “No matter the cost.”
    “I have a daughter.” Numidicus pushed his way through the group. “What happened to these boys is a price we’ll all be expected to pay.”
    “And they paid it gladly.” Mama’s glare forced Numidicus’s retreat. She returned her attention to the boy with the arrow. “Cyprian, snap this arrow shaft, but leave me enough to work with so I can get the head out.”
    While the healer dug through a basket, Cyprian stepped into place beside Ruth. Uncertainty rippled in his tense jaw, but he set his feet.
    The healer produced a handful of rags and a small cloth bundle. “Ruth, once I free that barb, you stanch the wound.”
    “But, what if—” Lisbeth interjected. They all turned and glared at her.